Because Loving You Is Not Enough
by Choco-Loki
Summary: Alfred falls asleep while watching the movie "The Family Man" during the holidays and wakes up a human, married to Arthur with two kids and a dog. He wants to return to his life as a nation, though he is unwittingly falling more in love with this Arthur.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**-At the Christmas Eve party, Alfred and Arthur are not together yet.  
>-Partly based on the movie, "The Family Man", so it will have some of the movie elements, like quotes and certain scenes. Subject to be altered, however.<br>-Alright, I have one month to finish this story. Probably going to fail and miss my Christmas deadline though, lol.  
>- "Alfred falls asleep while watching the movie "The Family Man" during the holidays. He wakes up a human, married to Arthur with two kids, Peter and Wy (Elizabeth), and a dog, Hanatamago. Alfred tries to get back to his life as a nation, but in the meantime he is unwittingly falling more in love with this Arthur." That's basically what I'm working with.<p>

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

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><p>"What do you think of this so far?"<p>

He could feel Arthur tense and see the glass of champagne in his hand sway and nearly spill as he laid his hand on the other's shoulder, but relax just as quickly when Arthur realized that it was only Alfred who'd come to bother him.

"Oh," he said. "It's you." He shook off the hand resting on his arm. "Do let go, won't you?"

"It's Christmas Eve, England," Alfred protested, moving to the Brit's side. "Can't you be nicer to me, you know, it being the holidays and all?"

"I don't believe you've done anything much to earn that much from me, I'm afraid," he said wryly. "You were being positively ridiculous during the meeting today."

Alfred tilted his head, as if he couldn't have helped it anyway.

"It's Christmas Eve," he repeated, then stared out the window. "So what are you doing here by the windows? I'd thought you and France would be the first ones to get smashed and do that totally wicked dance you two did on the buffet table last year…"

Arthur cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed.

"It's exactly because of that I don't want to get drunk tonight, America," he said. "However, it's the same every year, isn't it?"

Alfred had managed to nick several sugar cookies in the lining of his coat, and was shamelessly stuffing them down his face.

"What is?" he mumbled out.

Arthur ignored the crumbs falling from Alfred's mouth and gestured with a tip of his head.

"The party we always have on Christmas Eve. It's the same people arguing over the same things, and—"

"That's not true," Alfred said. "France brings different women here all the time."

"Well, alright, but save for that it's been all the same."

And it _was_ the same thing every year—there was Feliciano hanging off of Ludwig's arm and talking at a million miles an hour; there was Francis with two beautiful ladies by his side, speaking French in small, delicate voices; Kiku was sipping his drink by the other corner, looking very uncomfortable as Sadiq shouted at Heracles in front of him, who in turn responded in his slow murmurs. And there was Arthur, Alfred thought, who would stand by the window all alone and pretend he was waiting for someone.

Alfred chuckled.

"Would you rather be human, then?"

Arthur didn't answer immediately.

"Sometimes," he said, giving a little smile, "I imagine it'd be nice to live as a human."

"Why?"

"Oh…it's selfish." Arthur's face tinted pink. "Humans get to love and be loved. And mean it."

"And we don't?" Alfred demanded.

"Not in the same way," Arthur replied. He gazed outside, and made it clear that that was the end of the discussion.

Alfred huffed.

"We've been through centuries and nobody's changed. But to be honest, I'd rather everyone fight over who gets to carve the turkey than in wars, you know?"

"Of course, that wasn't what I meant," Arthur rebutted peevishly. "It's only that I'm the one who remembers the smallest details, and I'm the only one bothered by it."

"Then don't be bothered by it," he said nonchalantly, swallowing his last snickerdoodle and pulling at Arthur's hand. "Come dance with me."

"Don't be silly." He wrenched his wrist back, rubbing at it in annoyance. "I can't—not with you, I mean, not _here_…"

"Everyone here can care less, they're already drunk or too…busy…" He gave a meaningful look towards Antonio and Lovino, the two half hidden behind the window curtain and swaying to the music in each other's arms. Alfred shrugged. "Or we can do it like them, I don't mind."

"That's not the problem," Arthur said frostily, though his tone wavered. "We're not…we're not _like __them_, America, for goodness sakes…"

Alfred had already snaked one arm around Arthur's waist, dragging him behind the heavy curtains as he hummed along to Bing Crosby's voice crooning out "White Christmas". Arthur shifted stiffly, adjusting his body so that his drink wouldn't topple.

"You can't sing, America, why do you insist…" he mumbled irritably, but his face had turned scarlet as he lay on Alfred's shoulders, studying the snow collecting outside. "We must look like a pair of idiots."

"No one's watching," Alfred replied breezily. "Practice makes perfect, don't you know? Like when you tried to teach me how to play violin—"

"And you're still horrible at it."

"But I'm not that bad on guitar, you know that."

Through the reflection in the window pane, Arthur could see nations in pairs, shuffling along just like he and Alfred were, tangled together awkwardly in the way of good friends that would never become lovers, with sleepy grins that might've been an indication of affection or just pure drunkenness. Arthur nodded tiredly to Alfred, his eyes almost closing as they moved slowly to the tune, the lights in the lobby dimming. The world felt hazy and misty and Arthur thought that it was nice to have someone holding him for the moment…

And then Alfred started to sing.

"Stop that—" Arthur's face scrunched up, and he would've smashed his palms in Alfred's mouth if he hadn't been holding the glass. "You're terrible!"

"No, I'm not," Alfred said, and continued to imitate Crosby's low, rounded voice. "_May __your __days __be __merry __and __bright_…I think I'm pretty damn good." He paused. "Hey, England…?"

"I just remembered," he murmured against the American's shirt, "that it was snowing that day, too."

"Huh?"

"You sang this song to me on Christmas Eve in forty-five." He laughed nervously, in a very quiet manner. "Sure, I was bloody drunk that night, but I remember because…you thought I wouldn't…"

Alfred deadpanned.

"I'm not getting it."

Arthur pushed away.

"You don't…you don't remember?" He sounded mortified, his expression flushed with shame and disappointment.

"Forty-five, that's ages ago, there's no way I can remember all the shit I say."

The Brit backed up, his hand wavering.

"So you didn't mean a word of it?" he whispered, horrified. "You—I should've known! Oh God, I've even believed you all these years, but you were just _joking_—"

"England—Arthur!" Alfred steadied the other, his eyes wide. "What—what did I say?"

"Nothing!" Arthur bit out, glaring. "You said absolutely _nothing_, Mr. Jones." He looked around and stepped out of the curtain. "I can't stay. It's late, and I've got paperwork. I should leave."

"No! Arthur, wait!" He yanked on Arthur's wrist. "I don't understand!"

"Let go, you're hurting me—"

He stopped as Alfred moved forward and kissed him, the rest of his words dying on his tongue as Alfred pulled him closer. His champagne was on the windowsill, still sparkling and untouched against a background of night and floating snow. The time was twelve, and sprinkles of gold and silver fell onto guests as the decorated clock on the far wall chimed. In their corner, Lovino closed his eyes and kissed Antonio; in the middle of the hotel lobby, Feliciano laughed in his usual bubbly way and reached up to wrap his arms around Ludwig; Elizaveta was by Roderich's side, for the first time being without a digital camera; five tables away was Peter, running with that snow-white puppy of his towards Tino and Berwald, grabbing at red and green streamers as they floated down.

The song thrummed softly on hidden speakers, "_I__'__m __dreaming __of __a __white __Christmas, __just __like __the __ones __I __used __to __know__…_"

When the clocked chimed a final time, Alfred pulled away and told Arthur that he loved him.

"America…"

Arthur's voice was small.

"Never say what you don't mean, America. I hate it when people lie." He finished gently, "I'm going back to London tomorrow. Merry Christmas, Alfred."

And Arthur weaved into the crowd of half-intoxicated, giggling bunch of party-goers without another word.

* * *

><p>"<em>You <em>_forgot_," the television fizzed out, the woman's voice surprised and hurt. "_You __actually_ _forgot __our __anniversary_."

Alfred didn't think he should be spending Christmas like this, a bowl of chips in one arm and dip in the other, stuffing his face and watching some romantic drama film that happened to be on HBO in the dark in his Manhattan apartment. If he called Arthur now, there was a good chance that he'd be ignored.

"_I__'__ll __fix __it. __I__'__ll __go __out __right __now __and __get __you __something. __I__'__ll __make __it __right_," the man assures her guiltily, but to no avail. "_Please __don__'__t __cry_…"

He should've done that. He should've gone after Arthur and tell him that he'll fix everything, make everything right again.

But he didn't. It wasn't because he didn't love Arthur.

It was because he didn't know how to make Arthur understand that he meant what he said.

As the movie played, Alfred watched the couple dance and laugh and kiss, and even though it was just a film he knew Arthur was talking about loving and being loved like this. Only that they were nations, and their emotions were artificial most of the time, propelled by diplomatic relations and very rarely by personal affairs. So that neither knew what was real and what wasn't.

Alfred barely noticed when the screen changed scenes.

"_These __last __weeks, __Kate, __I __know __that __I__'__ve __done __some...some __unusual __things__…_"

"_It__'__s __been __interesting, __that__'__s __for __sure_."

"_But __I__'__ve __done __some __good __things __too, __haven__'__t __I_?"

The woman considers this, on her face an expression Arthur often used when he was thinking.

"_You__'__ve __been __Jack __Campbell. __And __that__'__s __always __a __good __thing..._" she murmured.

Alfred's eyes slipped shut and he fell asleep on the couch, just as the man took the woman's hands in his and made her promise that she'll always remember him as he was.

* * *

><p>Something felt off when Alfred opened his eyes, the sunlight streaming in through the draperies blurring his vision for a minute. He was in a bed. Had he sleepwalked to a bed in the middle of the night? He was certain that he'd fallen asleep on the couch last night, in the middle of watching the depressing parts of that Nicholas Cage movie…<p>

"Stop moving around, Al…it's too early…"

He froze, and turned to see Arthur snuggling up to him in a worn pajama top, thick lashes fluttering at the morning sun as he stirred under the sheets.

"_England_?"

Arthur half-opened his eyes, confused.

"What's the matter, Alfred?"

"You—what the—the party!" He sat up completely straight now, staring at the room in bewilderment. "You left me at the party! You said you had paperwork, and you had to go back to London tomorrow."

Arthur blinked.

"Are you…are you alright, Al?" he ventured cautiously.

"Am _I_ alright?" he repeated dumbly. "Should you really be the one to ask that—"

Voices and a sharp yapping noise bounced from the hallway and into the room, little pattering footsteps coming closer until two kids, a boy and a girl, popped their heads through the door.

"It's Christmas! It's Christmas! Santa came last night and gave us presents!" the boy shouted excitedly, crawling onto Alfred and jumping up and down. "Come on, let's go downstairs and open them!"

The girl was holding a puppy when she came up to Alfred, tugging on his sleeve.

"Let's go see if Santa ate the crumpets and scones we made, Daddy," she chirped. "And then we can go build snowmen, you said we could!"

"Wha—"

"Maybe Santa choked on them and he's twitching on the floor right now!" the boy exclaimed. "Wouldn't that be funny—"

"Santa's going to take back the presents if he heard you," Arthur scolded groggily, sliding off the bed. "You're jumping on Daddy, Peter, that's not very nice."

"No! I didn't say that!" he yelled back, rappelling down the mattress. "Is Daddy going to wake up soon?"

Arthur sighed helplessly, throwing on a robe and ushering the two outside.

"Give him a few minutes, I suppose." He looked at Alfred before turning back to the girl. "Love, why don't go check if Santa replied to the letter you two wrote? I'm sure he left it with the presents."

The girl nodded and grabbed Peter's hands, dragging him out the room and down the stairs.

"Okay!"

Arthur let out a breath of relief and suppressed a yawn.

"Alfred, I thought you said you were getting up early to dress up for the kids," he said.

"Dress…up?"

He looked around, trying to not panic then and there. He wasn't in his apartment, but on a bed in a room that looked very much lived in—toys strewn near the door, pale-colored curtains which Arthur was currently pushing aside, complete with a bay window through which Alfred could see a snow-blanketed neighborhood.

"As Santa Claus," Arthur accentuated, as if that was obvious. "You were talking about it all day yesterday, wouldn't shut up until I've heard it three times…"

Alfred was silent, then swung his legs over the edges.

"Ow!"

"What's wrong?" Arthur asked.

The American bent over and picked up the lone Lego piece he'd stepped on.

"What the hell?"

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"I told you to stop letting them take their toys everywhere." His expression softened as he walked up to Alfred and hugged him. "Merry Christmas, love."

Instinctively, Alfred wrapped his arms around the other. He had never heard Arthur's accent this calm and soothing, nor Arthur himself so content. On an impulse, Alfred lifted his chin and kissed him, expecting Arthur to back up and do something along the lines of cursing incessantly or to punch him, but he did nothing of the sort and instead responded rather enthusiastically.

"You're being quite irregular this morning," Arthur whispered against Alfred's mouth, smiling. "Alright, what did you break this time, Mr. Jones?"

"You…you're not mad at me?" he said incredulously.

"Why would I be? Unless…" Arthur raised an eyebrow, his tone becoming dangerous. "You've given me a reason to?"

"No, no!" He slapped his palm on his forehead a couple times. "Am I dreaming?"

Arthur gave him a strange look.

"You really do need coffee to function," he commented, pulling away and heading downstairs. "Strong. Coffee. Okay?"

"Uh…okay—wait!" He pointed towards the living room, at Peter and the girl. "Who are they?"

Arthur shook his head slightly, his brows furrowed.

"Aliens," he said flatly. "Came in a UPS package with Santa's presents."

"…Really?"

"Are you serious—_no_, of course not." Arthur rubbed his finger on his temple, exasperated. "Alfred, just get dressed, Tino and Berwald are coming over to watch Peter and Elizabeth at three, and we've already overslept. I'm not letting you go to the Edelstein's party in those sweats, no matter how funny you think it is."

"I'm not wearing sweats—oh, what the…" He followed Arthur down the stairs, pulling on a jacket. "England, are you playing a joke on me? With magic or whatever your Peter Pan friends do?"

"Alfred, you're really not making any sense." Arthur made his way into the kitchen and rummaged in the cabinet. "And—hold on, did you just call me England?"

"Well…yeah."

The Brit turned around and faced Alfred, grabbing his arm.

"Are you _sure_ you're alright, Alfred?"

A glimmer on Arthur's finger caught his attention. He raised his own hand and gaped at the ring.

"Jesus Chr—are we…are we married?" he asked carefully.

Arthur sighed.

"Very funny. You should know that this is the strangest question I've ever gotten from you," he said. "Yes, Alfred." He pulled a can from behind the tea bags and thrust it at Alfred. "Coffee."

He fumbled with the tin can, staring at Arthur in awe.

"Um…let me just…call my boss."

Arthur gazed at him with a curious expression, but he relinquished his hold and scooped another spoonful of tea leaves into the teapot.

"Okay, Alfred," he murmured, watching Alfred stumble upstairs. "Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**-My deadline for finishing this story is on Christmas Day, so what I'm hoping for is one chapter per week. But eh, that's just what I'm hoping for, so no guarantees. By the way, thank you all for the reviews/favs/alerts, and just for checking out this story. :]  
>-If you haven't seen the notes on my profile, it says I am limiting this project to a maximum of five chapters or so.<br>-And if you haven't seen my first Author's Note, I have mentioned that there will be movie elements in here, but they might be altered or out of their original order.  
>-Here's the full movie on YouTube; watch it while it's still online, because I swear to God, this movie is amazing: <strong>h <strong>**t ****t ****p ****:/w****w****w****. you ****tube****. com/****watch?v = ****6tJP0 d****W3k0 M& ****feature = related  
><strong>-In the AU, nation!Arthur is referred to as England most of the time. However, back in the real world England will be referred to as just Arthur.  
>-This chapter contains sap. That's just a warning, because from here on, there will be sap and the occasional angst when Alfred screws up, things like that. And yeah, I know Arthur is probably supposed to be bipolar with his emotions and junk, but in the AU he has been married for ten years to Alfred. Still being super high-strung about displays of affection after living with Alfred for a decade is like, I don't know, living with a gorilla and not realizing you have a gorilla in your house. shot for terrible comparison

EDIT: Posted at around 11:20 P.M. on 12/05/11, so there are bound to be some grammar/sp/DM linked words I haven't found. I will fix those later!

Disclaimer: **I ****don****'****t ****own ****Hetalia.**

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><p>"<em>The <em>_number __you __have __dialed __is __not __in __service.__" _

Alfred groaned threw the phone on the bed. He didn't want to admit it to himself, as stupid as his notion sounded, but it was beginning to seem very much like he was trapped in some alternate reality. That, or Arthur had gotten majorly pissed last night and thrown some fairy powder on him.

But Arthur had just kissed him this morning, and looked, as corny as it was to say it, as if he couldn't have loved him more.

He wasn't going to hyperventilate and expire right in his own nightmare, Alfred swore to himself. He was going to grab some jeans and a shirt that did not make him look like a thirty-four year old father and wash his face in the bathroom as soon as he found where the bathroom was. After all, he was still a nation, the United States of America, a goddamn hero. Alternate universes were nothing. He could pretend to be a human dad for a while, play with the kids and do other domestic shit like loading washing machine. Couldn't be that difficult.

At least, the movies didn't make them look too hard.

Hopping into new pants and pulling a polo shirt over his head, Alfred wandered around upstairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. He could hear Arthur downstairs, calling for Peter to stop jumping on the couch and come eat breakfast. As he reached a corner, he could see down directly to the dining room, where Arthur was sipping at his mug, pushing aside the window and gazing at the snow-covered lawn, looking thoroughly self-satisfied and strangely happier and more vivid than Alfred had remembered him as.

Bathroom. He was looking for the bathroom. And there it was, two rooms away, the door partly shut and the lights inside already turned on. Alfred sidestepped a fallen teddy bear and over a set of wooden toy soldiers (he hesitated for a moment, slightly surprised) and pushed the door open.

"Daddy! I'm using the bathroom!" came the indignant shriek.

The little girl from before was standing atop a stool and brushing her teeth, in her arms a stuffed animal which Alfred couldn't identify exactly. She spat in the sink and bared her teeth at him in an exaggerated manner.

"Mom said you had to knock before you can come in, Dad," she explained in an irritated voice. "Oh well, it's okay. I'm done already."

"You…you call Arthur 'Mom'?"

She shrugged, as if she thought it didn't sound quite right, either.

"Not all the time, but Peter said it was okay." She stepped down and carried the stool a bit farther to make room for Alfred. "Are we going to make snowmen, Dad?"

Alfred blinked and squeezed inside.

"Uh, sure, why not?"

When he looked at her more closely, he realized something—he'd actually seen her before, hanging outside the meeting rooms and waiting for Australia, the brown-haired girl carrying around the sketchbook and paintbrush all the time. Looking for a shaver, he reached upwards and yanked at the jammed cabinet knob, which in turn flew open and launched the America's arm towards the side mirror.

"Ow, _Goddam_—" He caught himself, throwing a look at his 'daughter'. "—uh, God…darn it."

The girl had seated herself on the step stool and was peering at Alfred as if trying to decide about him.

"Did you hurt yourself?" she asked.

Alfred was now ogling at his arm, where he had accidently scraped it against the corner of the mirror closet. There was a fine line of red, a droplet of blood pooling to a tiny scarlet bubble as Alfred watched in astonishment, waiting for the cut to close. But it didn't; his hand wavered and the blood dripped down to the sink, snapping Alfred out of his trance. He turned on the faucet and splashed water on the cut.

"Do you want a band-aid?" the girl said again.

"Oh—nah, I'm fine. Heroes don't need band-aids." It was a small injury, but the fact that it didn't heal immediately was what troubled him. "Um…your name's Elizabeth, right?"

She pursed her lips at him and did not answer for a while, scrutinizing him curiously.

"You're not really our dad, are you?" she said bluntly.

He paused, unable to decipher her intentions.

"No," he admitted finally. "I'm sorry."

"Are you an alien, like Tony?" she continued, her face void of emotion.

Alfred bent down to her level, his eyes flashing.

"You know who Tony is?" he inquired in a low tone.

She brought up the stuffed animal she'd been carrying—a plush toy of a grey, humanoid creature. Someone had outfitted it with a small felt Santa hat and tied a bell to its right hand using a strip of green ribbon.

"This is Tony," she said, making the stuffed animal wave its arm and jingle. "My daddy gave it to me on my birthday. He said that Tony is really smart, and he can help people when they're in trouble." She looked up. "Where's my daddy?"

Alfred didn't know how to respond to that.

"I…I'm not sure."

Elizabeth pulled a concerned frown, considering the response.

"Dad should be fine wherever he is. You know, Papa said Dad's head is so thick if you smashed a brick into it, he'd still be fine."

The corner of Alfred's mouth twitched.

"Did he now."

"Yeah. He won't let us try it out though." She grinned at Alfred. "But Dad said he's a hero, so I think he'll come back soon." Elizabeth tugged at his face, patted his head, and then out of the blue, she violently yanked out a strand of hair. "Maybe I can bring my dad back with magic. Papa's good at that."

Ignoring the ache on his scalp, he placed his hands on her shoulder, alert.

"Arthur taught you magic?" he pressed urgently. "You know how I can get back?"

She didn't answer.

"You look a lot like him," Elizabeth told Alfred instead.

Alfred couldn't help but smile. What in the world was he doing? She was probably seven, at least no older than Peter. And here he was, trying to get voodoo information from her when most likely didn't mean what she'd said.

"Do you still think I'm an alien?" he teased.

Her expression grew distrustful at an alarming rate.

"Are you going to cut up our skull and implant machines in our brains?"

"Uh…no?"

"Do you know how to make cookies?"

"I think I'm pretty good at following directions on the packages."

"Good," she said, gruffly nodding her approval. "Because Papa's really bad at that." She took his hand. "Let's go down for breakfast. Can you make pancakes?"

"Sure, Matt taught me, except mines are more awesome."

"I have an uncle called Matt, too." She sighed in a quiet, decisive demeanor, as if she didn't really know what to do, either, and led him out. "I won't tell Peter you're an alien."

"And Arthur?"

Her shoulder raised and lowered.

"He'll figure it out sooner or later, maybe," she said. "Welcome to Earth, I guess."

* * *

><p>Alfred thought he must've been going crazy, deciding to do this, but once downstairs he eventually persuaded Elizabeth to stop plucking at his hair to take "samples" and go play in the living room, where Peter was making a ruckus with the dog—("She has a name, Dad," Elizabeth told him, annoyed. "We call her Hana. You need to start learning some Earth things if you don't want to get captured and dissected by scientists.")—and bellowing out Christmas carols along to the radio at ungodly decibels. He stalked into the kitchen then, because he knew he couldn't stay here, being human and all normal with this (more agreeable, he had to admit) Arthur. Who knew, maybe there really was another him in this universe, married to Arthur Kirkland, not the United Kingdom. But that thought became so warped Alfred pushed it out of his head.<p>

Arthur was doing the dishes, so he didn't notice Alfred approaching him. He turned around when he felt arms encircling his waist, appearing a mite irked but no more than that.

"There you are," he said conversationally, as if he were used to such affections from Alfred. "Are you awake now?"

"Huh? Oh, oh yeah. Totally awake." Alfred rested his chin on Arthur's right shoulder. It was unreal, how much this Arthur resembled England in manner, tone, and gestures. "So, uh, Lizzie's been telling me about you showing her some magic tricks."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Magic tricks?" The corner of Arthur's mouth curved up in realization. "Oh, you mean those good fortune charms. It's from a book she read at school. She thinks they'll prevent her from getting bad luck at school, stepping into a mud puddle or tripping over her shoelaces, things like that."

"Are you sure?" Alfred asked, unconsciously rocking Arthur back and forth. "Like, a hundred percent sure?"

"I think I should know what I'm capable of doing, Alfred," he responded briskly. "Unfortunately, not everyone is endowed with superpowers like the characters in your comic books." He glanced around briefly. "Speaking of your comic books…"

"What comic books?" he said, his attention diverted.

"Alfred. The ones you purchased off of eBay without my consent, which you then crammed into my bookshelf. Honestly, you need to move Superman and Batman and…and Captain America to the attic before I recycle them—"

"Arthur, I need you to answer my question very, very seriously."

Arthur, taking note of the America's sudden change in manner, turned around.

"Alright," he said. "Let's hear it."

"Do you have a magic wand?"

"Do I have a…" Arthur blinked, as if he hadn't heard the question correctly. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that, so that your question makes, oh, I don't know, more sense?"

"Gee, Artie, I don't know how else to put it. Okay, let me try again. Are you in possession of a stick with a star at the end?"

"Am I—" He couldn't keep a straight face then; Arthur burst out a short, disbelieving laugh. "A magic wand? Alfred, I know it's Christmas Day and all, but this is just…"

"Arthur, this is not a joking matter. I need to borrow your wand."

"Are you even listening to yourself, Alfred?" Arthur asked incredulously. "You said you were serious!"

"I am!"

"Oh, really?" He threw Alfred a meaningful look. "Well, then my answer is no, Alfred, I don't have a wand. I don't have a broomstick, either, and I can't take you to Hogwarts."

Alfred groaned.

"Oh, come on, Artie! I'm talking about the ones you take out of your jacket to wave around when you get mad at France, I mean, Francis—"

The faucet shut off abruptly.

"Francis?" Arthur's voice was sharp like broken glass. "Francis Bonnefoy?"

Alfred's eyes veered here and there, painfully aware that he'd stepped on a mine.

"…No. I didn't say that."

"Yes," Arthur enunciated slowly, "you did. Was that your intention, to bring him up?"

"No, no, you're getting it wrong—"

"Hm." Arthur's tone was more confused than angry. "If I remember correctly, you hate talking about my ex's."

Oh.

_Oh_.

"Uh—oh, no, I was just…just recalling an incident." His words felt strangled, his face hot with jealousy—no, no, he wasn't jealous. He'd only met this Arthur today, but it never really occurred to him that he would have a past, so to speak, with a person whom he thought England thoroughly loathed. So he wasn't jealous, he told himself inwardly. He was just annoyed, and perhaps worried about what would become of him and England back home.

"Alfred, you're holding on a little too tightly." Arthur attempted to unclasp the American's fingers, but to no avail. "Really, what is the matter with you today?"

Alfred spun him around, so that he could look at Arthur in the eye.

"Alfred, this is—I'm have things to do—"

"How many years have we been married?" he asked, the question feeling foreign and awkward coming out of him.

Arthur's face brightened, rapidly beginning to lose his composure.

"T-ten years or so, why do you ask?" he replied as coolly as he could.

Ten years was nothing for a nation. Time passed swiftly, ten years might as well have been ten days. But holding Arthur's left hand and knowing that there was a ring there made a decade seem more important than ever. This Arthur wasn't his, yet he was inexplicably glad to simply stand here and hold him.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Arthur murmured, his tone troubled.

"Like what?" Alfred managed to get out.

Arthur furrowed his brows, but he seemed entranced, looking at Alfred with a puzzled expression.

"Like you don't even…" He trailed off, stared one final time at Alfred before pecking him on the cheek and taking his chance to deftly slide out of the embrace. "Dishes are yours," he said airily. "It's my turn to change. Make sure Peter doesn't jump on the couch and knock over the Christmas tree again, will you?"

He wrung his hands dry and headed upstairs. And Alfred watched him go, feeling more lost than ever because the smile Arthur had given him wasn't really meant for him.

* * *

><p>Alfred's definition of Christmas Day hadn't particularly changed over the last fifty years. He always thought that it should be celebrated with a lot of people, and by "a lot", he meant a whole hotel lobby full of guests, complete with a live band and a buffet, American-style all the way (because French cuisine was not satisfying. It was as if Francis was trying to make it worse by putting inch-wide meat cubes on a plate six times its size). That was his New York Christmas. Back in the mid-forties he'd spent it with England two or three times, and all those years England had never failed to drink himself silly, and every time Alfred had to carry him back home. But when he was little, England had brought him presents and he'd open them in front of the Brit, in a room with a fireplace and a plate of horrifying, smoky lumps that used to be scones (but Alfred knew better to ask England to affirm this), and he'd thought, a few years later, that he'd never have a Christmas like that again.<p>

Yet here he was, settled in a couch the color of mahogany (which he was so positive that England had the exact same one back in his house) and sipping at his lukewarm coffee while Peter attacked the presents, one after the other.

"Dad, look at what Santa gave me!" Peter said, crawling onto the couch and bouncing on the cushions as he waved around a half-unwrapped gift. "He read my letter! I wrote in there that I wanted this game and a TV for my room, but I guess I circled the game so I got that instead, but he read my letter! So maybe if I circle everything next year—"

"Absolutely not," Arthur's voice chided in irritation from the staircase. Alfred didn't know what he was expecting, maybe a stodgy-looking person wearing slacks and a fuzzy green sweater of doom, but at least it wasn't Arthur in grey jeans that clung to his legs and dress shirt and vest. Arthur didn't seem to notice Alfred goggling at him, and took a seat next to the American, resting his head on the other's shoulder as if it were the most natural thing to do. "If you do that Santa will give you coal next year."

Alfred snapped out of his thoughts and joined in lamely, "Yeah, what he said. You know what, he's not even going to give you coal. You're just going to get, like, a pair of socks…or something."

Arthur shifted around and frowned.

"Why are your shoulders so stiff?" he grumbled, drawing his legs in. "It's like lying on pavement."

"Oh, uh, sorry." Alfred adjusted himself until Arthur finally stopped squirming. "Somebody's being touchy-feely today, Artie."

"I was _cold_, you git. Never mind, I'll go get a jacket." The scowl returned, and Arthur made a motion to get up until Alfred slung an arm around his waist and brought him back down. "Wha—"

"That wasn't what I meant," Alfred protested earnestly. He kept his arm tangled around Arthur just in case, but the Brit didn't make an attempt to leave again, only huffed in annoyance and relaxed. "Really. I want you to stay."

"I'm letting you off easy today," Arthur muttered without much heat and, feeling a pair of eyes on him, looked up inquisitively. "Is there something on my face?"

"No, no, it's just…" He tapered off, studying Arthur's half-smile intently. "I haven't seen you this close before. Usually you turn away—"

"Any person with a right mind would do that, the way you're looking at me like I'm some type of lab specimen. First it's the thing with the wand, and now this," Arthur interrupted, but whatever was truly on his mind, he didn't bring it up. "Buying Peter another video game," he whispered against Alfred's ear. "And after I've told you three times, too—"

A lingering moment of silence hung between the two of them, and Alfred took those three seconds to find Arthur's hand and intertwine their fingers together. Arthur said no more, instead turning his head to the tree standing in the corner of the room, over-decorated with lights and Disney ornaments and a gaudy, Made-in-USA star to top it all off. All of the presents having been opened, Peter was currently chasing Hanatamago around with his new toy robot, with Elizabeth not far behind. How clichéd him and Arthur must look, Alfred thought. It was a wonder the radio hadn't already turned itself on and started to croon out picturesque 80s music.

The next time Arthur turned towards him, Alfred pressed his lips on Arthur's and kissed him gently. Arthur's face dusted red, though he allowed his eyes to close and leaned in. But Alfred still felt out of place, even with Arthur's hand in his, because he wasn't the one that had married him. Arthur pulled away, breathing softly and shortly as he observed the dazed expression on Alfred's face.

"Something's different about you today," he pointed out. "I can't put my finger on it."

"Different?"

"It's probably…nothing." Arthur swung his leg over and stood up. "I'm going to finish the rest of the chapter before we head to the Edelstein's. The editors want to see the first bit by mid-January, good God."

"The editors…?"

"For the new novel. I told you about it yesterday, remember?"

"Oh." How could he have known what Arthur did for a living in the first place, much less about this new novel of his? "Oh, right. But—"

A squawk and a yelp from the living room shattered the rest of Alfred's words, and Arthur had to raise his voice over the din to make himself heard.

"What is it?"

What he had told England the day before tumbled out of his mouth, "But it's Christmas."

Arthur cocked his head ever so slightly, as if he were intrigued by the simplicity of Alfred's reason, and softened (though he was careful to keep his expression one of exasperation).

"I'll be quick," he promised.

Elizabeth appeared into view once Arthur had gone, coming towards Alfred with light steps.

"You said we could build snowmen," she said and, as if referring to Alfred's current status as an alien, she added, "I don't mind. But Peter's coming, too, just so you know."

Afterwards, while helping Elizabeth into her snow jacket and boots, he found himself wondering what England was doing back home.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:**-Another late post. There's still a few days before break, so I've exams and projects lined up. Most likely I will not make the deadline, and I'm thinking of extending it, but whatever.  
>-<strong>Warning<strong>: domestic sap up ahead, just because I can. Oh, and possible sp/grammatical errors and/or DM linked words. And implications of [badly written] sex at the end? I don't know. Doesn't seem explicit enough to rate it M.

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.<strong>

Alfred could scarcely recall what he did during those dull business trips to London (hell, he had trouble remembering the meanings of the slang words England threw at him); the weather and clouds seemed to suck out the colors and turn the city a fuzzy shade of grey. Not all the time, but most. And he didn't do anything particularly interesting, either. He went to two meetings a day with middle-age politicians and portly businessmen sporting professionally trimmed mustaches. Those who knew who he was (they simply assumed him as a diplomatic representative, if they hadn't been informed otherwise) would offer him a small smile, and those who were new would ask arrogantly whether he was the assistant and, without waiting for the answer, request for a cup of tea anyway. Alfred would bring them what they'd asked for, sit down at near the head of the table, and watch the faces on those corporate pigs change to mortification.

England would arrive once everyone had been seated, entering with an indifferent expression on his face before starting the meeting. He would not spare Alfred a single glance unless talking to him about the discussed matter, but Alfred would always try to get his attention by means of notes, tapping his pen on the countertop, or wayward looks he knew irritated the Brit. But that was the norm.

However, there was that one time he successfully made England agree to preview with him the materials for another meeting at his house. There was a small lawn in the front yard, and someone, if not England himself, had planted a row of flowers that grew in clusters of splattered colors. England had kept everything strictly business; they'd talked late into the night until England left to change upstairs, and Alfred fell asleep on the couch, waiting. He remembered how exhausted England appeared and how, when he thought Alfred wasn't looking, his hand would tremble slightly. When he came to, there was a blanket on top of him, and the silence in the house indicated that Arthur had gone to sleep.

That was the Arthur Kirkland he had grown to love—the one who'd scorn him for all he was worth and be just as affectionate when he thought no one could see.

Alfred opened his eyes and turned his head towards Elizabeth, who was kneeling on the couch and tugging at Alfred's arm.

"Papa told me to wake you up," she said. "Also, he said if you fall asleep after eating you'll get fat like Santa."

"This isn't fat. These are muscles," Alfred said matter-of-factly, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. Peter had practically forced him into a snowball fight that lasted for an hour. But whether if Alfred was feeling the effects of being human (hence his current limited stamina) or if Peter was just inhumanely energetic, he was so tired he hadn't realized that he'd passed out on the couch. "I'm not fat."

She poked at his stomach once or twice.

"It's sort of squishy," she observed.

"They're _muscles_," he accentuated.

Elizabeth didn't argue, as if she wouldn't care either way.

"Okay," she said and slipped down. "I'll tell Papa that."

Alfred wasn't sure if she meant telling Arthur that he was awake or his claims of not being fat, but whatever it was, he could see Arthur coming downstairs, a bundle of yellow folders clutched in his arms.

"Oh, good, you're up," he said briskly, setting the folders aside and quickly throwing on a tan peacoat. "I'm going to run to the office because I've just finished the first chapter!"

He sounded very enthusiastic, and Alfred felt like he should be congratulating Arthur or something, the way the Brit was looking expectantly at him.

"That's awesome," he said, then added upon Arthur's expression, "I mean, you've obviously worked a long time on it. The editors will love it, I'm sure."

"Well, that part, unfortunately," Arthur replied with a click of his tongue, "is up to the editors. Though I'm afraid I need to brush up on my historical facts before I make up any more assumptions." He shrugged, but his smile was uneasy. "But," he appeared to be assuring himself rather than telling Alfred, "I can make corrections later. I was half-rushing it…"

"What do you mean?"

Arthur seemed to have taken the meaning in another fashion, for he scoffed back, "I know this isn't my area of expertise, but you can only get so far writing children's stories." Arthur buttoned his coat with one gloved hand, the other holding on to his file of manuscripts and notes. "I've always wanted to write for a bigger audience. Do you remember college?"

"Uh, sure, I guess."

"I was interested in classics. Jane Austen, Brontë, Victorian literature and such… Maybe that was why I'd wanted to write in the first place. I wanted to start a novel one day. I that I knew I was most likely going to end up with no savings and bloody drunk in the middle of some dismal alley at two in the morning—" He chuckled nervously. "—and that wishing to be an author was a lost cause anyway, because I don't have the ability or the time to just drop everything and pour my life into a gamble."

"That's not true at all." Alfred opened his mouth, ready to disprove any more self-criticisms Arthur was going to come up with, but Arthur only rolled his eyes, a small, breathy laugh accompanying a real smile gracing his features. He brought out a couple of pages from within the file and scanned it before addressing Alfred again.

"Don't you ever get tired of having to reassure me of my insecurities?" he inquired wryly.

"Nope," Alfred said without missing a beat. "Never."

"You don't have to lie, I've always been terrible about meeting deadlines. But that is awfully kind of you to say so," Arthur said drily. "I suppose I should thank you for putting up with my last-minute rushes."

"Of course," Alfred said and stood up, enveloping Arthur in a hug. England or not, Arthur was still just as cynical, his responses still laced with the occasional insult dipped in sarcasm, which was what made it familiar. "I'll always be here."

"You are always enthusiastic and insufferable during those times," Arthur agreed, staying rigid and putting just enough room between him and Alfred to continue double-checking his draft. He then murmured, peering downwards so that Alfred could not see his flushed expression, "And you are always patient with me. I am very grateful to have you there."

Alfred smiled, but the Brit only exhaled, glancing at the falling snow with a worried expression.

"I should be going."

Alfred pulled him nearer.

"There's still time." There was something fleeting and precious to this moment in time, something about this single, insignificant minute of him holding Arthur in a suburban house on Christmas Day, in a universe he hadn't even known existed previously. There were no documents or international issues threatening to bring the economy to an untimely doom, no buried cell phones ringing from underneath the couch, no meetings or shouting or being burdened by an unspeakable, scarred history spanning several lifetimes. Because for now, he and Arthur were human and, at least in this brief period, he was glad that Arthur gave him a sense of normalcy. "Talk with me."

"Talk?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Aren't we already doing that?"

"Nah, right now you're really just ranting. And it's not like I don't like ranting or anything, but you sound really tired. Talk about something less stressful. Something completely random and not work-related."

"I think you should lose weight," Arthur said frostily, without raising his head. "Your turn."

"Low blow, Artie. Not cool." Alfred frowned. "Okay. I know that…" Then it occurred to him—he didn't know anything about Arthur as a person. "…I know you like tea."

Arthur still didn't look at him.

"I think you are loud, and your personality is brash and obnoxious."

"You're supposed to take this seriously, Arthur," he complained.

"I am, can't you tell?"

"My turn." He whispered in Arthur's ear, "I think your accent is totally hot."

That sparked a visible reaction; Arthur's cheeks began to light up, and he responded scathingly, "Well, I think yours is atrocious and you absolutely demolish the English language."

"I like how you get mad at me but you don't really mean it because I'm too awesome."

"_I_ think it's amusing how you don't know the depth of your own stupidity," Arthur threw back.

"I know you love…books written by dead authors and junk—"

"They're classics!" Arthur attempted to wriggle free, but to no avail. "Alfred, let go, I am _not_ going to get caught up in traffic because of you—"

"Can I tell you a secret, Arthur?" Alfred leaned forward, his voice low, "Yesterday, I'd told you that I loved you."

Arthur stopped struggling, his eyes directed at Alfred, entranced and utterly displaced for a moment.

"I'd watched you leave for London, and I didn't do anything about it. But here you are again." He hesitated. "Do you believe that things happen for a reason?"

When Arthur found his voice, he spoke softly, "Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

Arthur shifted his papers, but only so that he could fiddle with something as he talked.

"In college I'd been working on an article to submit to the publishing company, and I'd almost given up on it. You told me something then that made me change my mind. Do you remember?"

Alfred gave a noncommittal grunt, mostly because he didn't want to upset Arthur. (After all, he'd already done _that_ with England.) But Arthur didn't seem offended; he slipped the papers back into its folder wordlessly and remained silent as he contemplated to himself.

"I don't, either," he admitted. Alfred marveled at how quickly Arthur's mood could change—from frustration to bewilderment and to something unreadable as if he'd become a doll. "But I remember that you'd made me laugh."

* * *

><p>"You guys are going to be late," Peter announced from the backseat, swinging his legs idly. The windowpane had become frosted outside, and he was puffing on them and drawing out faces with his finger. The car had been at a standstill for over five minutes, and he was clearly becoming impatient.<p>

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Peter," Arthur said flatly, hitting his forehead against the steering wheel and letting it lay there as motionless as the car had become, stuck between the city and home on the road back. Once the time pointed three, it was like a signal, calling every taxi and minivan which could possibly be hidden in Manhattan out for a grand traffic congestion. The plan had been for Arthur to deliver the papers by himself, but Alfred had, for whatever vague reason he'd come up with, insisted on tagging along. And of course there was no way Arthur would leave the kids at home, and Peter refused to let go of Hanatamago, which eventually ended up with everyone crammed into the car.

In other words, it was all Alfred's fault.

"You're welcome—"

Arthur exhaled resignedly before turning to Alfred and groaning, "Call Elizaveta and tell her we'll be late."

"Who's Elizaveta?" he asked dumbly.

Alfred hadn't even been aware that Arthur's face could contort into such a glare.

"Not now, Alfred. You've picked the wrong time to be stupid."

For once sensing the atmosphere and catching that Arthur's incessant glaring at the car in front was turning stormier, he turned to Elizabeth and mouthed, _What __do __I __do?_

"She has brownish hair. She smiles a lot." Elizabeth supplied helpfully, "She told me she was from Hungary."

"Artie, can I borrow your phone? Mines ran out of batteries."

It was a lie he had to tell to avoid probable disaster, and Arthur's crossness was one he had to endure. Arthur complied, grumbling under his breath as the car ahead inched forward. As Alfred scrolled down the list to "E", he noticed that two names down, the entry was labeled "Francis Bonnefoy". He tapped on the words and a new window opened, indicating that there had been two missed calls three days ago.

* * *

><p>Once Peter and Elizabeth had been dropped off at Tino's house (Alfred wasn't sure if he should be surprised to be greeted by a Finland- and Sweden-look-alike) they had, by what must be a holiday miracle, to weave out of traffic in one piece. He knew he shouldn't have been that amazed when the Edelstein's door opened two hours later and a woman—Elizaveta, Alfred assumed—suddenly shrieked and threw her arms around Alfred's neck while she was still holding a plate of a very delicately frosted cupcake.<p>

"Merry Christmas! I'm so glad you're here!" She was crowing excitably, stepping aside to welcome them in. "The way you were speaking on the phone, oh my God, Alfred, I thought you two weren't going to make it!" Elizaveta called to the crowd inside, "Alfred and Arthur are here!"

There must have been over fifty guests, Alfred estimated. Half of the party looked intoxicated; the others were laughing and chatting, sipping at various drinks while Christmas music played from an unseen radio. The house was bigger than theirs, and far grander; however, with the amount of people streaming to and from rooms, there was almost not enough space. Dinner plates laden with an assortment of courses and desserts had been arranged at the dining table, but it was nothing fancy, not like the New York parties at big-name hotels with food made on the spot by hired chefs. Alfred had a feeling he should know these people from the way they were smiling at him, but he was looking at an entire sea of strangers. And for the first time in his life, he didn't especially want to be the center of attention.

"How are Lizzie and Peter doing?" Elizaveta was rattling on, setting her cake down and whisking up a glass of wine she'd left on the countertop. "Did they like the presents I got them? You should bring them here sometime, I mean, I wish they could be here right now, but I don't want Gilbert getting drunk anywhere near them, you know?"

She had Hungary's features: her face sweet and round along with a little smirk to indicate that she knew everybody else's business. There was a blossom tucked behind her ear, her light chestnut hair brushed smooth and pulled up into a bun, save for a strand on the side of her cheek that curled neatly into a ringlet. While she talked her hands gestured wildly, her motions exaggerated as she described something or the other about Roderich's supposed money-saving antics, her laughs bell-like as she listened to Arthur go on about a co-worker at the office.

For Alfred's part, Elizaveta had notified him that Gilbert (Prussia, he told himself. She means Prussia) wanted to discuss with him about something—she rolled her eyes good-naturedly at this point—and quite literally steered Arthur away as she continued to chatter about an article she'd come across. Alfred used the rest of his time wandering around Elizaveta's house, which proved to be a task in itself, mumbling 'excuse me's to people and craning his neck, hoping to find a familiar face.

"Alfred!" From a corner, lounging on the couch and surrounded by a circle of friends, Gilbert waved him over, snickering in that peculiar way of his. "Over there! You look lost, man."

"Do I?"

"Whatever, I don't really care," Gilbert waved it away and downed the contents of his bottle. "Some holiday, huh? And what's with that woman divorcing Glasses six months ago but still living with him? Get this: she told me that she still cared for him, and the marriage was a thing of convenience between their parents' companies." He huffed, crossing his arms, "What kind of cheap-shot logic is that supposed to be? I mean, who the hell does that anymore?"

"She's not going to ever leave Roderich, Gil," a man laughed. "So you can forget about your chances of screwing her—"

"Shut it, that wasn't what I meant!" He fell into a slump, fuming. "I fly all the way back from Berlin to party and I end up drinking with you poor single bastards." He motioned offhandedly at Alfred. "Except for you. How's Lizzie and Peter doing? I haven't seen them in a while."

"Fine, I guess." He sat down and bent over, his hands clasped together. "But the thing is that…uh, would you think I'm crazy if I told you something?"

"I've gone through three bottles of booze, whatever you tell me chances are I will believe you. Unless you say that you're a woman." He squinted, as if Alfred's face was becoming harder to focus on. "Actually…give me a minute…"

"Are you sure?" Alfred said doubtfully. "I mean—"

"Dude, say it or don't. You're the one who married the British punk and gone domestic, that should be enough to get you on the crazy list."

"That's exactly the problem. I didn't marry him." The more he thought about it, the more his dilemma began to distress him. Whatever conversation he'd had with Arthur in the morning flew out of his mind, and suddenly the only thing that mattered was the fact that he had somehow turned human, and that he did not belong here. "This sounds stupid, I know, but I was in my apartment in New York the day before, and when I woke up this morning I found out I was married and had two kids. I'm not supposed to be here."

Gilbert didn't seem affected. If anything, he looked increasingly drunker as he started to cackle.

"Hey, I've been through it, too. You don't think I have days where I wake up and I go, 'Why do I have this job? And who the hell is this chick next to me—"

"Would you believe me," Alfred interrupted urgently, "if I told you that I'm the human personification of America? And that some people in this room are representatives, too?"

The man nearly instantly assumed a sober expression, a frown deepening as he sat up straight again and raised his eyebrow.

"Actually…yeah. I've thought of something like that before." Gilbert cocked his head, his tone serious. "Then that means Arthur is England, and Toni is Spain, and me…"

"You're Prussia," Alfred prompted eagerly, but Gilbert decided to choke on his beer at that moment, his composure gone.

"Okay, I lied before. I'm not _that_ drunk yet." He paused for a bit and inquired blankly, "What's Prussia?"

"Forget i—"

"Alfred!" Elizaveta was making her way across the room with a small plate of a tea-green colored confection. Out of the corner of his eye Alfred noticed Gilbert immediately pushing the beer bottle to a random person nearby and smooth out his shirt before reclining and putting on the most indifferent expression he could muster. "Alfred, I brought you something. Roderich made it the day before. He says he's trying out a new recipe for this type of cake—"

Gilbert snorted there, and Elizaveta turned her head to him sharply.

"Hello, Gilbert," she said coolly. "I see you've decided to waste away on my couch. Again."

He raised his arms as if he could care less.

"Least I'm not in there baking cakes and doing girly shit."

She glared at him murderously.

"If I hadn't known you since elementary school I'd have kicked your sorry ass for saying that," she seethed dangerously. "But one more word about Roderich and I'll see you leave this house on a stretcher." She left Alfred the cake with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. Tell me how it tastes later, okay?"

Gilbert watched her leave, eyeing her longer than what was appropriate.

"Yup," he finally breathed out triumphantly. "She's definitely hitting on me."

The man sitting to the left of Gilbert punched his arm and roared with laughter so loudly that even Alfred cracked a grin. For another thirty minutes, he stayed and listened to Gilbert boast nearly incoherently about his misadventures in Europe; he'd just finished his story of when he jumped a man who'd swiped his wallet at the train station in Germany, and the time got paid to clean a house for a mobster in Italy, when he stopped and turned his head down the hallway, towards the front door.

"I think I'm seeing things now. Is that Francis over there?" he slurred. "But he told me he was going to be in Paris for his art exposing—exposure—exposi—"

Alfred stood up and glanced at the doorway. Behind the clumps of partygoers gathered here and there, it was obvious Francis, holding someone's hand and kissing their knuckles. Whoever's hand he was holding wrenched away, and as that person stepped forward Alfred's expression darkened considerably.

"Now I see _three_ Francis's. Damn, he's kissing Arthur—_three_ of them, at the _same_ Goddamn time—"

Of course, Gilbert was distorting the facts through his beer-affected eyes, but there was no doubt that Francis was there with Arthur, about two crowds away. Despite Arthur having pulled away in the beginning, he clearly didn't resist when Francis leaned forward and pressed his face against the other's cheeks. He merely crossed his arms and accepted it rather monotonously, scowling as Francis drew back and pointed above the doorway. Nevertheless, he allowed Francis to lay his hand on his shoulder and bring him away.

Francis had come back from an art exhibition for Arthur. He knew it really wasn't his problem that Arthur could possibly be seeing someone else; he had no right to judge for he had known this Arthur for less than 24 hours. Alfred was stunned only because it had never occurred to him that—the thought was selfish, and he knew it—Arthur would love ever someone else. And as Alfred told himself that multiple times so that he'd remember that he was thrown to this warped universe by some freak accident, he wondered why he felt more miserable than bitter.

* * *

><p>They'd gotten home at nine o'clock. Alfred drew the blankets over Elizabeth's head and she giggled, burrowing to the other side of the bed until her head poked out.<p>

"Tell me a story," she said, just before Alfred could turn the lights off.

Alfred's shoulder raised and lowered, as if he'd never been asked a question like that before.

"You wanna hear about how Gilbert got mugged by the police in Budapest?" he suggested.

"Not really." She slipped out of bed and pulled out a hardcover picture book from within her desk cabinet, then handed it to Alfred. "I want you to read this one."

"'_Ms. __Fairy __Finds __a __Home_,'" he read aloud. "You like this?"

"This was one of Papa's books. He said it was a commission," she explained, and added quietly, as if she were ashamed, "I don't know what that word means."

"It means someone paid him to write this." Alfred leafed through the pages, across skillfully painted trees and autumn red leaves piled on grasses. "He drew this, too?"

Elizabeth nodded and climbed back onto the mattress.

"Yeah. Papa writes a lot of children's books, but he made this one for me and my dad." She flipped to the dedication page. "See? '_To __Elizabeth, __a __star __and __the __cleverest __fairy __in __the __land, __and __Alfred_…'" She turned the page. "Okay. Start reading."

"That's it? You get to be a star and a fairy at the same time and I'm just…" He checked the page again and finished for her, "—'_Alfred, __an __idiot__'_? Really?"

"Dad asked the same thing, too."

"And?"

"Papa said that it was a typo. But he means well." She tucked herself in, grabbing Tony surrounding herself with three other plush toys as if building a fortress. "Now the monsters won't get me," she said. "I'm ready now."

"I'm right here," he pointed out. "There won't be any monsters while I'm here."

"I know," she quipped distrustfully. "But you're a stranger."

Alfred sighed, and began at the first page, "'_Once __upon __a __time__…_'"

* * *

><p>Elizaveta wanted Alfred to read three bedtime stories, but she apparently had had a tiring day at Tino's. She was out before Alfred reached the last part, which was not that much of a relief since Peter woke up then to go use the restroom and couldn't fall asleep again afterwards. Alfred successfully lights out in Peter's room at exactly eleven-forty-seven (he kept an eye on the digital clock), took a shower, and ended back in the bedroom he shared with Arthur to watch the rest of Family Guy on television.<p>

"Al?" Arthur was drying his hair as he walked in. "I thought you said you had to plan for the new semester."

"What new semester?"

"You know, at the college." When Alfred gave him a blank stare, he emphasized his next words, "For your classes."

"I'm still in school?"

"Actually, never mind. Forget that I brought it up." As he passed by, he switched off the TV and cut Alfred off before the American could protest. "It's twelve, Alfred. I had to deal with the frog at the party to get the references for the novel, and he wouldn't stop being a nuisance afterwards…"

"References for…oh, man, that was why?" His eyes widened. "It wasn't because you and Francis—"

"Francis and I…?"

"Holy crap." A surge of guilt hit him like a wave, but he was inexplicably exuberant inside. "Holy crap."

"Alfred?" Arthur said at length, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. "What are you talking about—?"

Alfred offered a hand and hoisted Arthur on his lap, earning an angry hiss from the Brit. But Alfred kissed him then, leaning forward and tangling his arms around Arthur's frame, bringing him as close as possible. When they parted, Arthur was regarding him dazedly, an expression full of perplexity and love meant for someone else.

"I've been thinking," Alfred said. "I don't think I've ever told you this, but…you're just…you're a better person than I am."

Arthur smiled, almost uncomfortably.

"Thank you, Alfred…"

"I'm serious." He felt Arthur's grip on his shoulders tighten in an almost anxious fashion. "You've loved me for years but I never really knew…"

Arthur's gaze did not falter; he blinked and breathed out, "How can you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Look at me like you haven't seen me for the last ten years."

Alfred froze, but relaxed when Arthur settled and put his head in the crook of his neck. When he reached over and turned the lamp off, Arthur rose, his grip slackening as he looked at Alfred, alarmed.

"Wha—"

He could barely see Arthur now, only the brief glow of his jaded eyes as the light died out. He turned Arthur over so that he towered over him, cupping Arthur's face and feeling fingers digging in his back as Arthur laughed silently. He was brought into another kiss, and his hands slipped down Alfred's back, sliding past old scars that he could not see, across wars England had lived through and possibly fought in. Light from a passing car shone through the blinds and draperies, and for a single moment Alfred could see Arthur's hair shimmer gold and his eyes glinting blindly at where he thought Alfred was. England would never allow himself to make an expression as vulnerable as that. He had once conquered a quarter of the world; he had ruled his empire for a thousand years and killed more men than he himself could recall.

"You could have had anything—anyone—in the world," Alfred whispered as Arthur's legs tightened around his torso, his breathing coming out heavy and warm. "Anyone at all."

"I want you." Arthur's touches were light and fluttering. "Oh, _God_—"

But it was England who could have had anything in the world. However, as Alfred brooded over that, what difference did it make now? Arthur was England, and England Arthur; what difference was it that this Arthur happened to be human? Arthur was just as proud and haughty, yet he'd chosen to love Alfred.

And so the image of England blurred and melted away, and all Alfred could feel through intermingling short puffs of air and heartbeats was Arthur. He could never show Arthur his scars.

"Why—" Arthur gasped out, biting back a cry as Alfred pressed deeper. "Why are you acting like this? The lights—"

_Because __I __don__'__t __want __you __to __see_, was what he wanted to say. But Alfred swallowed that sentence and replied with another, finding Arthur's hand and intertwining their fingers as he did so.

"Because I know you're here," he said in a low voice. "And I don't need see to make sure."

Arthur let out a shuddering sigh, his free hand tangled within Alfred's hair, and said no more.


End file.
